Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Caladria101
Summary: Jack sweeps into the Hub first thing, and announces that he and Toshiko are taking the SUV for the day, kids, please stay out of trouble. Post To The Last Man


When Jack sweeps into the Hub first thing, and announces that he and Toshiko are taking the SUV for the day, kids, please stay out of trouble, only Ianto looks unsurprised. This is partly because Ianto has a poker face worthy of a card shark, but mainly because he knows what Jack's got planned, administrator extraordinaire that he is.

Tosh, on the other hand, looks suspicious.

"What's going on, Jack?" she asks, as soon as they're in the car. She's brought as much scanning equipment as she can fit into her bag, as well as the ever-present laptop, and she's fiddling with them now – whether through uncertainty or a need for them to be constantly calibrated, Jack's not sure. She's been even quieter since the military hospital.

"It's a surprise," he tells her, trying his best to be charismatic and mysterious. His best is very good.

She looks at him, a little exasperated. His charm still works on her, sure – if his charm ever stopped working on anyone he'd start to worry – but his Toshiko has been with him five years now, and five years is apparently enough time to push his overwhelming personality to one side momentarily.

"I don't like surprises, Jack," she reminds him. He does remember that, actually – the one time they'd tried to throw a birthday party for her hadn't been pretty. That had been Hannah's idea – Hannah-before-Owen with the giggly laugh and love of cake and the lack of luck.

"You'll appreciate this one," he says firmly. Has a feeling that she needs it. "C'mon, is the idea of spending the day with me so unappealing?"

She smiles then, and shakes her head minutely. Ha! He's still got it, not that there was ever any doubt.

They make their way out of Cardiff and over the Severn Bridge, listening to Radio 4 and debating who should really win the Worst Week of the Week Award (Awarded Weekly on a Week by Week Basis) and whether Terry Wogan is as good at Eurovision as he's made out to be. It feels good, to just talk to Tosh, though he's aware that she's jittery under the surface, wondering what he's got planned.

Somewhere around the M6 Toll Road, she tries to broach the subject again.

"Toshiko," he says, drawing out her name like a caress. "Relax."

"I can't," she replies, looking at him, annoyed. "You've dragged me away from the Hub, when I need to do at least three fairly vital things to the computers, there's been activity up in Cwmbran with those humanoid interplanetary key ring sellers, and there could be a Rift activation at any time, because God knows there's been a lot of those since Owen opened it to save _us_." There's accusation in her voice; mild, but from Tosh, damning.

Jack sighs. Asking Tosh to relax for an entire day was probably too much – he should have started with a chat over a coffee break or whatever a normal office boss did to – what was it the kids were saying these days? – _chill out_ a co-worker. He sucks at this boss thing, much prefers the big guns and saving the day. "This is something that I think you need to do," he says, slowly, like he's talking to a child.

Bad move, apparently.

"Just trust me," he tries, as they join the flow of traffic escaping north. He's not sure what price his trust is making these days, but it seems to be enough to hush Tosh's worries; her shoulders stay tense as they drive past the _Welcome to the National Forest _sign and young sapling trees on verges, until Jack reaches over her knee.

"I'm sorry I'm not groping you," he says, and his teasing smile is met with a _not in the mood for this _look until Tosh's attention is drawn to the piece of paper that he hands her.

Using Google Maps might be inglorious and mundane, but getting lost is even more so.

And the English Midlands is as full of narrow winding lanes as the Welsh.

Tosh is so intent on following the directions that at first she doesn't register that they have, in fact, arrived. Jack has turned off the engine and removed his seatbelt before she moves.

When she does, she takes in the carpark facing onto young woodlands criss-crossed with paths, and the sign that welcomes them to the National Memorial Arboretum.

"Cathay Park was too close?" she asks after a few minutes silence. She's blinking a little too much, but her voice doesn't waver.

Jack sighs. "The _Welsh _national war memorial is dedicated to I Feibion Cymru – Tommy wasn't a son of Wales. Besides, I thought we'd do this right." He glances at the laptop that she's gathering into her arms, and shakes his head. "Leave it," he says, in a tone that he hopes brooks no argument. "No aliens, no running for your life, no scanning or logic today. Stop and take a breath."

"What if I don't want to?" she asks, and Jack's sure that he's had this conversation a thousand times before, with a hundred different people. He worries about his people, the ones he has now, just like he worried about those that came before them. And he'll take a breath, and stop, and remember them all. He'd thought he was marking the time until the Doctor. Now, he wonders when he'd started marking the time since them, every single one of them. _He'd_ burst into Jack's life, turning it upside down, but others had crept in and made themselves comfortable before Jack had even noticed. Maybe he's too old for this crap – he remembers that every time he's here, and every time the number of people he knows here goes up.

He offers her his arm as they walk along the gravel path, stones crunching rhythmically under their feet a counterpoint to the sounds of blackbirds and thrushes challenging each other from the scenery.

"You know where you're going," Tosh says, after a few minutes.

"Yeah," he replies shortly. He doesn't say that he's got friends and lovers buried in places like this all over the galaxy. He doesn't mention that there are several dozen names on various memorials that he remembers. As flirts, gamblers, cheats, loyal friends. For once, this isn't about him. He thought that would be harder than it is.

A touch on Toshiko's arm and a quiet murmur of her name bring her to a stop at the right place. For a moment, she takes in the statue in front of her – eyes lingering on the blindfold that covers his eyes.

"Their names aren't on any memorials," Jack explains. "This has been here less than a decade."

"How many…?" Tosh asks finally, moving her attention from the soldier before her to the stakes surrounding it.

"Three hundred and six – the official number." He doesn't mention that there should be more; the ones who were quietly executed unofficially during the night to spare their families shame. He doesn't mention that he saw it happen, knew better, but also knew better than to change the course of history by even trying to save one extra. He doesn't mention that two of the men here were under his command. He doesn't mention that he can still see their faces when he sleeps.

He takes Tosh by the hand, leading her through a forest of stakes until he reaches the one he's looking for. She blinks at him, the cogs in her head putting the pieces together with what she knows of him until she reaches her own conclusion. He won't tell, and she won't ask, but she'll know a little. He doesn't mind, and that's a surprise.

Tosh's fingers brush the name on the stake – _Pte._ _Thomas Brockless_ – as if she can verify the data through touch.

"He'd had his twenty-fifth birthday, you know," she says eventually. "In 1976."

Jack didn't, but on reflection he's not surprised that Tosh did. Oh, his Toshiko, who got herself burned so often. He wants to lock his team up, sometimes, keep them safe. Send Gwen home to Rhys, cut the rest of them away from him and Torchwood to lead a good life free of insanity. It's tempting – he's got the Retcon – but he can't. Too selfish. Or maybe they're too damaged.

He tries not to realise that for all of Tommy's youth, he was the same age as Ianto. Ianto seems older than Jack, sometimes.

She steps back, then, pulling a camera out of her pocket – apparently 'leave it all behind' has taken on a new meaning in this new century that Jack hasn't run across – and takes a shot of the name. A digital capture of a memorial that's supposed to be timeless.

"He saved the timeline," she says. "And… he's here."

"Some corner of some foreign field, huh?"

"Belgium," she says, and Jack knows that one for himself, looked him up years ago when memories were fresh but records were muddied. Never gave him a birthday, though, not even in 1976.

"Is there a white grave somewhere with your name on?"

He shakes his head. "I was a lucky, lucky guy that dodged all the bullets. Deflected by my Yankee charm and dashing good looks," he adds, but now's apparently not the time. Thrice, as his old CO would say. No one noticed them, though; more to do with chaos than luck. He'd've looked stranger without any blood.

"Would've been harder facing a firing squad." She's not looking along the rows of posts, now, only at Tommy's. There's guilt, he thinks. If Tosh hadn't sent Tommy back, he wouldn't have ended up at the Front, and he wouldn't have been shot.

"Tommy's fate was sealed for him. The timeline was closed. No choice." He hopes he's being convincing enough. He's never quite managed to convince himself, but there again he knows when he's lying and he prides himself that no one else does.

There's a pregnant pause, and Jack can only wait for whatever's on Tosh's mind to spill out.

"I have a choice," she says eventually.

"Your five years are up," he concedes. He'd not mentioned it because he'd hoped she'd forgotten. He'd convinced himself that she was staying because she loved her job about two months in and not given it another thought since.

"I could walk."

She looks at him, and Jack, who prides himself on not only being the biggest bullshitter in Wales but also one of the best readers of people, has no idea what she's thinking. She looks troubled, but Tosh carries worry around with her like most people carry an umbrella. Just in case.

He gambles. "Could you? Give it up?"

"Give this up?" she asks, amongst the stakes of un-honoured dead soldiers.

"This isn't what it's about," Jack counters.

"They offered their lives based on propaganda and jingoism, and they were wasted."

He _knows_ that. Even more, he knows the brokenness of the ones who didn't end up here, and he mourns that wastage perhaps more. Age didn't have to weary those left behind; they were kids, tired of life at twenty.

"They got _nothing_, Jack," she continues. She sounds almost horrified. Jack knows she's wrong. They got shame and dishonour, and their families bore it.

"A lot of people do." He looks at her, and suddenly he knows that they're both thinking of Hannah-before-Owen, who'd never questioned where Tosh came from, had been professional as well as an amazing doctor, and who had had her throat ripped out one evening. Her parents had been told of a mugging gone wrong, not a timeline saved.

"It's what we'll all get, and it's not our place to question?"

"You don't do it for the pat on the head, Toshiko." She doesn't. This he knows for a fact. He's seen her solve a puzzle, and she's beautiful in triumph. "You're too good for that."

She shakes her head minutely, a denial of something.

"You couldn't give up the chase if you wanted to," he continues.

"I wouldn't remember the chase. I wouldn't remember the last five years."

"Would you want that?" he asks. He's flailing for reasons, now. Torchwood is death, and pain, and horror, and loss, but he knows it's in her blood. She's one of his, and he won't lose her. "Forget everything that's happened to you? Memories are all we have of people once they're gone, Toshiko. Who else is going to know what you and Hannah gossiped about in the kitchen?" (It was the glorious wonder that was his ass, he thought, but he didn't _know_.) "Do you want to forget her, and Suzie, and Ianto, and Gwen. Owen?" he questions, driving his argument forwards with sheer impetus alone. There's no good reason.

"I'm _tired_, Jack. I sent a man to his death. A man who -" And she breaks off here, not willing to put into words whatever it is that she's thinking.

"You saved the world, Toshiko Sato," he counters, and pulls her gently into a hug. She resists at first – any physical contact with Tosh leads to her momentarily freezing in shock – but allows herself to be pulled into his embrace. Jack rests his chin on the top of her head. She's tiny compared to him, and he can practically tuck her under his arm. "I sent a man to his death; I just used you to do it."

Jack carries enough deaths on his shoulders that one more will barely be noticed.

They stand there for a few minutes or a few hours, then wander the arboretum aimlessly, silently. Tosh buys one poppy cross; Jack buys two and she doesn't question it. They stand, silhouetted, dramatic in a very Jack Harkness way, and at the going down of the sun, they remember.

_Authors note: During world war one, 306 UK and Commonwealth soldiers were executed by their own Government for cowardice, their names not appearing on any local war monument. The Shot at Dawn memorial at the National Memorial Arboretum was unveiled in 2001, though they were not conditionally pardoned by the British Government until 2006, 88 years after the end of the war._


End file.
